Alternative Views Interviewer: Mr. Morrison, might you be able to reveal to us more about your girl's vanishing? Many people are suspecting that she's been slain by Casanova. Truth be told, the Newmen are having the "24-hour mark" countdown—if a casualty hasn't been found by the 24-hour mark, then it's safe to assume the worst—eighteen hours gave passed. What do you consider that?
Mr. Morrison: Well, Larry, I believe it's disturbing that the Newmen would trifle with vanishing and murder. To take it as an amusement is so appalling... Ideally, Helen will be protected and—

"Appalling my rear end! Aren't you the person who's being met as opposed to endeavouring to find your daughter? Ugh!" You turned off the channel and sunk into your seat.
"Are you conversing with the television?" A hoarse yet breathy voice dug out from a dearth. You turned your head, making a beeline for a view of "the unrivalled", Gaizka W. Duarte.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He plumped himself on your passé, mahogany Chippendale escritoire and gazed at you with his Neolithic, golden eyes. You really wanted to gape at his astounding allure. It wasn't the first time you've met Gaizka face to face, yet each time you do meet him you're hypnotised by his unhuman magnificence. You brushed yourself off and concentrated on the television by and by. "On the off chance that we had utilised Progressive Alpha Wave Entropy Somatofusion Adhesion—PAWESA—we would've discovered the identity of Casanova a while back. Be that as it may, clearly, the government thinks this is more unfeeling than wrecking 75% of the populace." You shrugged, removing two stogies from your pocket. "Need one?" You shoved a stogie towards Gaizka, his eyes lit at your invitation and he anxiously enkindled it with your lighter.
"You never neglect to amuse me, Roger."
"My name isn't Roger."
"Anyhow, I question they would forfeit more people. Two billion people are short of what they've anticipated after the Experiment. Additionally, the Newmen and other citizens would turn out to be more dubious of the government and would likely endeavour to oust it. Thusly, it's merely reasonable that they don't irresponsibly slaughter people, regardless of whether it intended to find the killer quicker." Gaizka stated soberly, he exhaled the cheap tobacco's smoke and gave you a refined smile. Your eyes were watery, and the only thing you could think about was the burdens of not utilising PAWESA. "What difference does it make? In any case, it would still be the same cycle. Experiencing cessation of all vital functions of the body, including the heartbeat, brain activity (including the brain stem), and breathing is more humane than to live in a contemporary post-apocalyptic society. People, akin to animals, may be consumed by a predator or a scavenger. The organic material may then be further decomposed by detritivores, organisms which recycle detritus, returning it to the environment for reuse in the food chain, where these chemicals may eventually end up being consumed and assimilated into the cells of a living organism. The same cycle repeats itself, whether it's caused by a massive murderer or scientists. It's only natural—in contemporary evolutionary theory: death is seen as an important part of the process of natural selection." You rambled.
"True, be that as it may, if they aren't the cause, then they won't be attacked. It's a strategy." Gaizka stood up, dawdling back through the entryway that he had already originated from. "I plan to see you in the laboratory today around evening time, Roger."
"My name isn—" Gaizka left the room before you could complete your sentence. "What an abnormal guy..."

Desolate, achromatic, and bitter. The possess a scent reminiscent of iodoform—a disinfectant they use here that gives this laboratory that distinctive smell—chloroform, or alcohol, pervaded the air. You laid back, respiring profoundly; the neutral, chemical whiff of antibiotics was brimming in your nostrils. Catching a glimpse of a reception desk and empty chairs. You trudged through the foyer. "Welcome back, Roger." The receptionist said incuriously. She flipped another page of her 2090's magazine, not even blessing you with a brief glance. "My name isn't Roger." Your eyes caught the receptionist's eyes as you walked forwards. "They are waiting for you in the laboratory. You'll find your Z-011 suit in the armoire with the various refurbished suits. Make sure to lave your face and hands with ICABAH before wearing the suit and subsequent to taking it off." Said the receptionist—which the more you take a gander at her, the more you understand she's a bionic-lady; an android. "Much obliged to you, Ms...?"
"ZMZ-18: The Sixth Unknown, a Technical Robot."
"Noted. My name is—"
"Roger, You are here! Come and take a gander at this." You heard a familiar voice. Nasally, monotonous, maddening. You turned to see the owner of the voice: Braxton Resetar, a neophyte doctor who was transferred to your unit—like many other doctors—since your field is in high demand. Now that he works in a laboratory he thinks he's a real scientist. You rolled your eyes when you saw his big cheesy grin, unkempt hair, and his mucky white coat. Swiftly, a firm hand clutched your shoulder; "They want you." ZMZ-18 pointed at the duo, "Roger!" The diminutive detective exclaimed, waving his hand back and forth.
"I am not bound to answer any of your questions. Please leave or calendarise an appointment—we are free on the 20th of April—"
The diminutive detective shoved his Mechatearer within your throttle. Eying his companion, he said, "That's an order." The ferocious detective hustled you away, into his car.

Cold gun's front side was pressed against your head, you calmly said, "I do believe your conducts were felonious." The diminutive detective flashed you a cheeky smile, "That's exactly why we have disabled both: body camera and the microphone."
"Let me get this straight: You are intentionally committing a crime?"
"You gotta do what you gotta do." He lit a cigarette and offered you a hand, "By the way, I am Aron-184. He's Valentine Ferrer."
"I am—" You shook his hand.
"We know your identity." Ferrer intruded.
"Perhaps we could arrange an extraconstitutional bargain? I'll answer your interrogations for a price."
"And what may that be?" Aron-184 was considering the proffer, apparently intrigued.
"(13 6213RVIC. Code § 1573) states: 'The territorial law dedicates each one of those found guilty of a series of inhumane scientific assays and tests—the denotation of 'inhumane vs. Humane' is largely loose, undefined, and additionally dim; contingent upon who is inclined to define it, the third authority—shall be interrogated and punished within all the legal bounds—once more, "legal", is, ridiculously and unjustifiably, utilised loosely. Thus—"
"I don't believe I comprehend what you are meandering about."
"Shh! I am going to get to that." You put your pointer on Aron-184's lips, as a gesture to hush him. "Anyhow." You ruffled your hair with your other hand, "The legal bounds set by the parliament's legislators—which they have regularly expressed 'any cruel and unusual punishments are unconstitutional' — Ironically, the disciplines set for (13 6213RVIC. Code § 1573) are composed 'Unlawful' with a capital U, as well as recorded as indefensible; notwithstanding the committer was indeed a lawmaker—"
"Affirm, I ge—"
"C. Code § 1573) are 'unconstitutional'— Ironically, the parliament's legislators—which they have often expressed and cruel punishmenta are not just composed 'Unlawful' within all the third authority—shall be interrogated 'any unusual and punishments set for (13 6213RVIC. Code § 1573) are composed 'Unlawful' with a capital U, as well as it was indeed a lawmaker (13 6213RVIC. Code § 1573) are composed 'Unlawful' with a capital U, as well as it was indeed lawmaker—which they have often expressed all the puni—"
"184, I believe he's stalling," Ferrer stated as he glanced at you from the car's mirror.
"Perhaps you are precise." Aron-184 yanked your blouse roughly; his face was ahead of yours, his nose touching yours. "Tune in, we don't have any time for your circumlocutory. It is probable that you consent to us—a liaison even, if you decide to be compliant—or get killed. We essentially require datum before we establish an 'official' affiliation."
"What I am endeavouring to state is whether you discover a way, which I could practice PAWESA with no legal issues, I'd gladly comply."
"PAWESA?"
"Progressive Alpha Wave Entropy Somatofusion Adhesion—we have laboratory apparatus, one denominated a 'Military Transmutation-Manipulator' or MTM. It works in multiplex mechanisms; the helmet is placed on the subject's head, withdrawing energies—generally thermal energy. On an atomic scale, the stored energy is a transitory strain placed on the bonds between atoms, meaning there’s no permanent change to the material. These bonds absorb energy as they are stressed, and release that energy as they relax. After this procedure, the MTM's energy will arbitrarily admix with the somatic energy—here's where it gets particularly dicey—the theory of probability comes in place in this progression: 50-50 possibility. Either, the energy transmits from the subject to the MTM, and transmit back again with the two energies effectively alloyed, or the MTM will siphon all energy off the subject."
"That implies the subject will pass on?"
"Precisely, yet we will obtain the fundamental datum to capture the killer."
"I don't comprehend why you wouldn't utilise DNA testing, fingerprinting, or psychology. Nor do I see how transmitting energy would be helpful. Appears you are overcomplicating stuff."
"The killer was precise when he killed his casualties. No DNA or fingerprints evidence was found. It nearly has all the earmarks of being a spectral crime. By transmitting energies we will obtain chemical and energetical data induced by nature. That would mean: notwithstanding whether the subjects don't recollect seeing the killer, their energy would have the capacity to indicate to us the killer's identity more viably than other retro-testings."

Aron-184's face was lifeless, he attentively eyed you, and then eyed his confederate. You felt as if you were being judged by his intense stare. You shiftted as you glance at the Mechatearer. Mechatearer is a fairly large revolver, a noteworthy choice amongst red collars looking for a well-rounded model. Its decent weight makes it not very demanding to handle. It packs a big bunch with deadly precision. This weapon was originally designed as a secret technology project, but it soon turned into a popular weapon around the world. Again, its official name is "K-B2", but it goes by its unofficial name, Mechatearer. Steadily, Aron-184's hand clasped the Mechatearer. Directing it at you, he said "I think not." The bullet spread amidst the air, puncturing your cranium in a millisecond. Your body slouched there, rigid, plummeting clumsily on the seat. Neuralgia blurred your vision, making everything dim and nonpictorial. Rushing noises, echoing and reverberating within your ears. Everything was distorted, purple shadows engirdled your vision, whilst the unintelligible words echoed. Your breathing began to slow down, you could've fought your fate but it seemed useless. Eyes closing slowly. You died.